Mulengro, page 35
“This isn’t getting us anywhere, Will,” Briggs said. He left unsaid, but understood, that the less said to the Gypsies, the better.
“The one you call Owczarek is not the one you truly seek,” the old woman said.
Will held up his hand to forestall Briggs. “What can you tell us?” he asked.
“I know who it is that you truly seek,” she replied. Briggs knelt down beside Will, the knee of his jeans on the wet gravel.
“Who is it?” Will asked. He wanted to hear how she’d name the killer before he told her what they had. “I have no name. But I have seen him.”
“Where?”
“You must understand,” Pivli said. “This is a thing that even the Rom are not comfortable with. They will listen to me, but I am not always welcome in their tsera—their tents.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am a drabarni,” she said simply. At his blank look, she smiled wickedly. “You would call me a witch or a medicine woman, shanglo. I know the murderer, for I have seen him in visions. He, too, works the draba. Black is his hair and black are his clothes, and his face is scarred, giving him the look of a wolf.” “Oh, Jesus,” Briggs said wearily.
Will shook his head. “Wait a minute, Paddy. Did you listen to what she just said?”
“Mumbo jumbo’s all I heard.” “The scars?”
Briggs regarded the old woman through narrowed eyes. He drew a folded picture from his pocket and opened it up to show her. A gnarled finger stabbed the photo, almost knocking it from his hands.
“That is him,” she hissed.
“And you don’t know his name?”
She turned her gaze to Will. There was a hard murderous look in their depths. “If I knew his name,” she said, “his true name ... I would be able to kill him.”
“Josef Wells,” Will said.
Pivli studied the picture, tasting the name, then slowly shook her head. “It is a name he might be known by, but not his true name.”
Briggs stood abruptly and stuffed the photo back into his pocket. “What is it with you people anyway?” he demanded. “What’s the big secret? You hide behind a dozen aliases, creep around the country like a pack of dogs—when you’re not nesting like rats in the worst part of a city. . . .Don’t you have any pride? Don’t you get a little tired of all these fucking games?”
He was suddenly aware that he and Will were encircled by a ring of dark-faced Gypsies. He looked past them to where the two OPP officers stood. The mood of the Gypsies was turning ugly and they looked on with mounting alarm. The tableau held for long tense moments. Everyone, it seemed, waited for how the old woman would react.
“We have pride,” she said firmly. “We are Rom. Our ways are different from yours, so do not seek to judge us by your rules. You speak of poverty—and we are poor, but by choice, and only in regards to worldly possessions. But we are rich in ways you could not imagine, shanglo. I see you, your soul stunted because you will not give it room to breathe, because you want one thing, but always seek another. We are wretches in your eyes, yet we are happy. We are content with what we are. Can you say the same?”
The woman’s words hit too close to home for Briggs. Content? Happy? He couldn’t even pretend he was either. He just went through the motions. Pivli reached out and touched his arm, smiling wanly.
“You are what you are,” she said, “as we are what we are. Let it be so.” Briggs found himself nodding. “There is a message for you,” she added suddenly.
“What?”
She pointed to the OPP cruiser at the same time as the radio squawked inside the car. Jim Gilhuly bent in through the window and hooked the microphone free, then looked over to Briggs. “It’s for you!” he called to Briggs.
Will and Briggs exchanged glances. There was something happening here, Briggs thought, and he didn’t understand it. He didn’t know if he wanted to understand it. He turned and made for the OPP cruiser, the Gypsies parting to let him go by, closing their ranks once more when he’d gone by.
“And what of you, black man?” Pivli asked Will. “Do you question our way of life as well?”
Will shook his head. “I’m curious,” he said, “but I figure you’ve got the right to live however you want—just so long as you don’t break any laws or hurt people. I’ve been reading about Gypsies. . . .” His voice trailed off at Pivli’s grin.
“Books,” she said. “What do books know? We have no books, nor need for them. A book traps words so that they can no longer change, so that the tale must always remain the same. The Rom are not like your books. We adapt. We change.”
“And yet you still stay the same.”
“Just so. That is the secret, black man. Think on it.”
“But—”
“The man you seek is in there,” Pivli said, motioning to the forest behind her with a jerk of her head. “Chase him if you must, but know this: He will be slain by a Rom, or not at all.” “Is that why you’re here?”
“To see justice done—that is why we came, shanglo. For no other reason.” She half turned her chair so that she could view the forest. “It will end in there,” she said. “We are here to see that it does end, that the evil does not escape its fate.” She turned back to look at Will. “You do not understand—but you will, if you enter those woods.”
Will started to ask her what she meant, but then Briggs called to him from the OPP cruiser. He stood up and nodded gravely to the old woman.
“Thank you for what you’ve told me,” he said, adding to himself: little enough though it was.
“Listen with more than your ears,” Pivli told him. “See with more than your eyes. There is a whole realm hidden to you otherwise.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
He turned and the Gypsies opened a way for him.
“God go with you!” Pivli called after him.
Will hesitated a step, then kept walking. He glanced at the men and women he passed. Their faces were shiny and damp from the drizzle, their clothes wet. They were all grim looking, dark-haired, with secrets in their eyes, though not one of them was so commanding, so unnerving as the old woman had been. Juju. He tried to put the eerie feeling aside.
“What’s up?” he asked as he reached the car.
“That was Archambault passing on a message,” Briggs said. “They’re all over the place.”
“Gypsies?”
Briggs nodded. “ ‘Copter did a count on them—forty cars in all.” “But what are they doing?”
“Same as this bunch. Each group that Archambault’s men approached had engine trouble of one kind or another and they’re just fixing it.Mostly they’re just hanging around ...waiting.”
“So what does he want to do?”
“Nothing,” Briggs said disgustedly. “So far they haven’t broken any laws. He’s going to check out that sighting at Bass Lake, but he wants us to keep in touch—close touch. No, and I quote, ‘hotdog-ging,’ end of quote.”
“What are we going to do?”
Briggs turned to look down the road that led towards the Conservation Area. “The Gypsy bands have pretty well sewn up this area back here—like they’re trying to hold something in. I guess we’re going in to find out who or what it is.”
“There’s no figuring some folks,” Jim Gilhuly said, coming up to them. He looked back at the Gypsies. “Well, if they don’t want any help, it’s no skin off my nose. Are you guys going in?” He made a motion with his thumb down the road Briggs and Will had just been studying. Briggs nodded. “Need any help?” Gilhuly asked. “Because if not, we’ve got a patrol to finish.”
“You go on,” Briggs said. “We’ll call in if something comes up.”
The OPP officer nodded, then got into the cruiser. His partner was already behind the wheel. When Gilhuly shut his door, the car pulled out onto the highway. Briggs’ gaze followed it down the road, then he glanced at the Gypsies. They stood in a silent knot, staring back at the two detectives. Inside him, Briggs’ ghosts stirred, then were still.
“Well, let’s go see what’s down this road,” Briggs said.
Will could still feel the old Gypsy woman’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look back.”You driving?” he asked.
“Sure.”
They headed back to their own car.
forty-seven
“Go back to the cottage!” Boboko hissed.
He didn’t look back as he moved slowly forward to confront the dog on his own. The animal was four times his size and its grin widened as it watched Ola’s small protector approach.
“Boboko, no!”
Beyond the first dog, Ola saw a second and third move out of the undergrowth, their fur wet and matted. Like the first, they were lean and gaunt, with feral eyes and grinning jaws. Boboko crouched down low about a half-dozen paces from the first dog, just the tip of his tail twitching. Before they could engage, Ola ran forward with a curse and threw her makeshift club. The dog dodged it easily and leapt at Boboko at the same time as the other two dogs exploded into motion.
Ola saw Boboko throw himself at the first dog’s throat, then kicked off her shoes. At her command, they lifted into the air, batting the first dog, throwing it off balance. Boboko hooked a claw in its left eye, blinding it before he was thrown off.
The dog howled and broke free. But the other two were closing in. One snapped at Boboko, missed, turned abruptly. Its paws scrabbled on the wet ground, spraying needles as it attacked again. The second ignored Ola’s airborne shoes and launched itself at her.
She lifted her arms to fend it off, knowing as she did that it was a futile gesture. Time seemed to slow down as the dog attacked. Its forepaws left the ground, its jaws gaped. Just before the dog hit her, smashing her back against the tree with the force of its rush, there came a sound like an explosion, Then the dog knocked the breath out of her and she tumbled to the ground, its weight upon her.
“What the hell was that?” Rod asked, pausing on his way to the boat with a couple of life preservers and his tackle box in hand. He looked in the direction of Zach’s cottage from where the sound had come.
“It sounded like a gunshot!” Lucy cried, recognizing the sound from a thousand TV shows. She dropped the pair of fishing rods she was carrying and started for the woods.
“Lucy!” her father roared.
She stopped in her tracks and turned. “Zach doesn’t have a gun, dad.”
“And what did you think you were going to do?” Worry put iron into Rod’s voice. Ever since that no-account dog had appeared in the yard this morning, he’d been on edge.
“But, Dad. Zach could be hurt.”
“You just stay here,” he said. He set down his own load and headed for the bush that separated Gordon Webster’s place from their own.
“Where’s your father going?” Beth asked as she came out onto the back porch.
Lucy turned from the woods. “Someone’s shooting up at Zach’s place and Dad’s gone to see what’s going on.” “Shooting?”
Lucy nodded. “It sounded like an explosion, it was so loud!”
“Well, I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to do if there is trouble. Honestly. Sometimes I wonder what he . . .”Beth’s voice trailed off as she saw her husband reappear from amongst the trees. She lifted a hand to her mouth at the look on his face. Under the fine sheen of water that the drizzle had put on it, his face was white. “Rod . . . ?” she began, stepping down from the porch. “My God, what is it?”
“St-stay where you are,” he told her. “Lucy, go into the cottage with your mother.”
“Dad?”
“Do what I say!” Rod could feel the shakes hit him. He needed a cigarette. He needed a stiff drink. Jesus. He closed his eyes, but the image wouldn’t go away. A half-dozen yards into the forest he’d come upon Gord’s body, torn apart by Christ knew what. Half-eaten. ... A tremor went through him and then he stood stock-still. From around the corner of the cottage he saw the lean shape of a feral dog step out onto the lawn.
Bob Gourlay lifted his head. Gunshot. He turned slowly, allowing for the echo of the sound in the forest as he homed in on it. He had a sudden flash of himself leaving the house last night, carrying . . . carrying his old 12-gauge. His hands opened and closed at his side. He sure as fuck didn’t have that gun with him now. But someone was firing one out here in the bush. He started off in a lumbering trot in the direction he thought the sound had come from. Someone was shooting a 12-gauge, sure as shit, and he’d lay ten-to-one the gun they were firing was his, yessir.
He held an arm before his face to fend off the wet slapping branches and barreled his way through the trees. Memories were starting to jog into place as he ran. He remembered seeing Jeff Owen here in the bush. Jeff Owen, one of the waitresses from Tinkers, and another guy. He shook his head as an image of Stan intruded on that memory. That couldn’t be right. Stan couldn’t have been there, ‘cause Stan was dead. But he could see Stan goin’ for the girl and he remembered—
He broke into a clearing suddenly and came to an abrupt halt. There was a man with his back to him across the clearing. A man all in black. At his side a wild-looking dog lifted its head and turned towards Bob. The man turned then as well, following the gaze of the dog until his pale eyes studied Bob. Bob took a half step back and swallowed thickly. For no reason he could understand, he was scared shitless. Again his hands opened and closed, looking for the 12-gauge that he didn’t have anymore.
The drizzle was getting into his eyes and he blinked rapidly to clear them. Beyond the stranger he could make out neat rows of Scotch pine, planted rows, and he knew where he was. The marsh he’d been in had to be the one running off Mill Pond, right between the Pond and the Big Rideau. This’d be the Conservation Area. He seemed to remember parking the truck not all that far from here. He and Stan’d been—Scratch that. Stan was dead. He’d been . . . what the fuck had he been doing?
His head started to hurt—sharp little pains behind his temples. Don’t think, he told himself. He tried to smile at the stranger who stood motionlessly staring at him. The dog was on its feet. Bob looked down at his hands and saw they were trembling. He swallowed quickly.
“Hey, mister,” he began.
“Kill him,” the stranger said to the dog and turned away.
As the dog left the man’s side, Bob turned and bolted into the bush.
The dog’s blood was all over Ola as she tried to push it from her. It mixed with the rain, slicking her hands. The animal’s glazed eyes stared into hers as she clawed madly at its wet fur, but she didn’t realize the dog was dead until its weight was suddenly lifted from her. She looked up into Janfri’s worried features.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he helped her to her feet.
“There were others. . . .”
“They scattered when I killed this one. I would have fired sooner, but this buckshot spreads wide very quickly and you were in my line of fire.”
“Misto kedast tute,” Ola said. You did well. “Thank you.” She stared down at the dead beast, then looked quickly across the field. “Boboko . . . ?” she began, remembering her last sight of the cat. One of the dogs had been bearing down on him. . . .
A mirthless smile touched Janfri’s lips.”Treed,” he said, nodding with his head.
Ola pulled free of Janfri’s support and walked gingerly to where the calico tom was perched in the lower boughs of a pine. Lifting her arms, she could just reach him. “Are you all right?” she asked as she cradled him in her arms.
For once Boboko looked serious. He nodded, seemed about to speak, then his ears flattened against his head as he looked beyond Ola. Janfri lifted the shotgun he was carrying, but the lean shape was lost from his sight before he could squeeze the trigger.
“We should get back,” he said. “I only have one shell left in this.”
Ola nodded numbly, still shaken by her close call, and let him lead her back to Zach’s cottage.
Briggs pulled the car over to the side of the road and came to a stop behind the parked pickup truck. The two men sat in the car for a long moment, watching the woods as the wipers went slowly back and forth, then they got out. Will drew his revolver from its belt holster and held it down by his leg.
“Did Archambault say who belongs to that truck?” he asked.
Briggs nodded. “Some local yahoo by the name of Stan Gourlay. He was going to check up on him when this dog-pack shit came down.”
They drifted easily over to the pickup, alert for anything out of the ordinary. While Will kept his attention on their surroundings, Briggs opened the door on the driver’s side and peered in. He stepped back, wrinkling his nose.
“Christ, what a smell!”
Will glanced at him. “Smells a little like roses?”
“More like something died in here. Even with the windows open all night. I was wondering why this Gourlay fellow abandoned it, but now I think I know.” He moved to the front of the truck and raised the hood.
“Maybe he had engine trouble?” Will offered.
“Maybe someone made engine trouble for him. Take a look at this.”
Will joined him and peered under the hood. Someone had removed the distributor cap and been none too gentle about it.
“Doesn’t fit,” Will said. “It feels like there’s a connection between this and Owczarek, but it doesn’t fit.”
Briggs nodded uneasily. His ghosts were stirring inside him. Presences. Faces. The dead, waiting for him to do something. Shaking his head, he looked towards the woods.
“Maybe we should go in a ways,” he said. “See if we can find something the local boys missed. We’ve got the daylight on our side now.”
Will smiled without humor. “Not to mention the weather.” He replaced his revolver in its holster and accepted one of the rain-slickers that Briggs fetched from the car. Moving slowly, the two men entered the woods.
The dog started for Rod, then caught sight of Lucy—frozen in place in the middle of the lawn—and changed direction.
